


The time Peter made up his mind (sort of)

by iced202



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Post S2, but no spoilers, tbh even no spoilers for s1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 12:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iced202/pseuds/iced202
Summary: One of those rare moments where Dylan has a pretty good point.





	The time Peter made up his mind (sort of)

**Author's Note:**

> hi! just something fun and short, let me know what you think!

“What are you even getting?” Peter asked as he watched Dylan whip around a corner far too quickly, silently gripping the side of his car seat.

Dylan kept his eyes on the road, although it was pretty clear that he wasn’t paying attention. “I think Pickle Rick. I was gonna get a pot leaf but my mom said she’d be pretty pissed if I did that, so we’ll wait and try again next month.”

Peter was, amazed, he supposed, that Dylan was currently on his way to get something permenantly etched into his skin without a certain idea of what it would be. The concept that he was definitely going to get a tattoo, but of indefinitely anything, was mind blowing. It was very in character of Dylan, considering he went through life winging most things, but the thought of Peter putting himself in the same position was unimaginable.

Once he and Dylan were in the shop, Dylan spoke with the artist and Peter let his eyes wonder. He’d been to this same tattoo studio a few times to watch Dylan and the Wayback Boys get random bits and pieces inked on their skin, but the designs on the wall were always captivating to him. They just looked so cool, he enjoyed the aesthetic of them, especially seeing a freshly finished piece on someone. Despite his distaste for a few of the more random and raunchy tattoos of his friends, Peter liked tattoos very much in general.

Dylan caught him staring as the artist began to set up their station. “Thinkin’ about getting some ink, dude?” He asked, sitting beside Peter and clapping an arm around his shoulder.

“No, no, I just like the way tattoos look.” He answered, trying to keep his eyes focused and not roaming the walls like a kid in a candy store.

Dylan laughed. “Why don’t you get one then?” He asked. “Obviously there’s some here that you like.”

“I don’t think I’m the type of person to get a tattoo.” He admitted. To this, Dylan only laughed harder. The artist called him back to the station.

As he began to walk toward the back of the shop, Dylan said “that’s bullshit. You’re you. You get to decide what type of person you are. And if you wanna be the type to get a couple of tatts, what’s holding you back?”

Peter sat on this for the thirty minutes that it took for the tattoo artist to cram a small, black line Pickle Rick between all the other miscellaneous tattoos that covered Dylan’s thigh. His friend reapproached the front of the store, a small smile of achievement crossing his face before he took out his keys and turned to Peter. “Ready to go?”

Peter didn’t get up and kept his gaze low. “What you said made me think,” he told Dylan. “You’re right. I’m the only thing stopping me.”

Dylan’s smile grew even larger. “That’s my boy!” He shouted, causing the artist to perk their head up from behind the desk. Dylan turned to the front counter. “My boy’s gonna get some ink!” He told the artist excitedly, who stood to conference with Peter.

The moment the artist’s feet came into his line of sight, Peter grew rigid. This was real now, he had the artist’s attention, and he was only one wall away from actually having it done. “What were you thinking of?” The artist asked.

Every intelligent thought or sentence Peter was capable of forming seemed to fly out of the window. “I’m, uh, not totally sure, I was thinking, like, maybe a turd for like, the turd burglar?” He looked to Dylan for guidance, except Dylan was nearly on the floor laughing his ass off. “Right, that’s dumb, uh, maybe a can of spray paint, from like, the first case? Or a video camera, or-“

“I’ll give you some time to think, let me know when you’ve got an idea,” the artist said patiently, stalking off to the back room.

Dylan took a few minutes to compose himself, unable to let go of Peter’s suggestions. “A turd, dude? You wanted an actual piece of shit on you forever?” He was losing his mind.

After finally being able to calm down, the pair decided to retreat to the Starbucks across the street and discuss. They got drinks, a snack, and a table in the back corner of the cafe, napkins and a stolen pen from the bank next door at the ready.

They ran through a lot of ideas. Nothing related to Vandal specifically because that it was so recent. A camera seemed like a good contender, but Dylan mentioned that Spencer had a tattoo of a video camera thanks to their YouTube channel, and while he loved it, it was difficult to make sure it didn’t look cheesy. A camera would take more time to work on.

“The shop closes at 8, man,” Dylan warned Peter, minding that it was currently six thirty and they’d left to get Dylan’s tattoo over an hour ago.

Peter tried to reach out for help, but Sam wasn’t answering any of his texts or FaceTimes, and he wasn’t sure who else he could trust so much with this decision. After another forty five minutes of arguing, Peter and Dylan finally agreed on a tattoo, but when the issue of placement arose, it took them another thirty minutes to come to an agreement. This left the pair walking back into the tattoo shop at 7:45, because Dylan insisted that after all the time it took to figure out, there was no way he was going to let Peter wait until tomorrow and change his mind another six hundred times, or worse, pussy out.

Dylan and the artist were close because of the number of tiny tattoos he had collected on his leg, so they were only slightly annoyed when Peter asked for a tattoo fifteen minutes before closing. The station was prepped and Dylan waved goodbye as Peter walked into the back of the store and settled onto the plastic-wrapped chair.

The tattoo hurt, and Peter did his best to bite his lip and keep the complaints to himself. Dylan has warned him that the ribs were one of the most sensitive places you could get a tattoo, but Peter couldn’t see it going anywhere else.

When he reentered the front of the shop, Dylan demanded that he lift up his shirt because he needed to see it immediately. “Sick, dude!” He cheered while Peter payed at the front desk. “How do you feel now?”

They walked back to the car and Peter winced while he strapped his seatbelt on. “It’s sore,” he complained, to which Dylan found amusing. He drove Peter home and then insisted on going in with Peter to show his family. “Are you insane?” He asked. “My mom can’t know about this. Not now, at least.”

“You’re not planning on getting more?” Dylan asked, a disappointed ring to his voice as they approached the house.

“I probably will, she just can’t know now.”

Peter’s mom was on the other side of the front door once they opened it. “Who can’t know about what?” She asked, a dangerous edge on her words.

She was not happy with his tattoo, but the fact that it was her birthday made her just slightly less upset.


End file.
